


South of Heaven

by reellifejaneway



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Eventual Romance, F/M, Inspired by Pirates of the Caribbean, Secret Identity, Thedas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 01:13:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3709427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reellifejaneway/pseuds/reellifejaneway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lieutenant Commander Cullen Rutherford is one of the Templar Navy’s most outstanding officers. With an eye for practicality, a commanding presence and a glowing future among his naval peers, he has everything to gain – that is, until he is assigned to hunt down the Storm Coast’s most nefarious Pirate, known only as the Inquisitor. </p><p>Posing as a shipwrecked nobleman, Rutherford infiltrates the crew of the infamous pirate ship, the Sky’s Hold. But when he comes face-to-face with the Inquisitor herself, will he be able to go through with his treacherous mission? Or will the Lieutenant’s sterling reputation be cast aside in favor of his heart?</p><p>A five-part AU fan-fic based on my Inquisitor Arida Lavellan, her commander, and inspired in no small part by Pirates of the Caribbean – and the remarkable voice actor who made it all possible. I'm just a fangirl and I can't let go...</p>
            </blockquote>





	South of Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ‘conclave’ – a peace envoy of navy ships – is destroyed, the veil is torn open and the pirate ship Sky’s Hold is witnessed fleeing the scene. Lieutenant Commander Rutherford is dispatched to bring in its captain, the nefarious Inquisitor. But rather than opting for the usual method (i.e., lots of ships and cannonballs – a technique which has always failed), he requests a special assignment: to go undercover. Plucked from the sea in little more than a noble’s powdered wig and ornate garb, Cullen finds himself in the midst of an unlikely crew – and sets his plan in motion. But soon doubts begin to foster in his mind. Is the Inquisitor really the villain his commanders claimed she was?

 

Icy water lapped at his hands. He had long since lost all sensation from his fingers. Eyes cast to the sky, blinking into the smoky emptiness above him, he began to recite…

 _Blessed are they who stand before_  
_The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter._  
_Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just._

His body was slowly growing numb. Fogginess settled in his mind, but he pushed it aside.

 _Must stay alert. Must remember_ _…_

There – was that a bell?

He blinked again, tears slipping from his stinging eyes and rolling across numb cheeks. _No. It couldn_ _’t be._

He had been drifting for what felt like hours. In reality it couldn’t have been more than thirty or forty minutes, but in this cold, it might as well have been hours. He had shivered violently at first, but eventually his body had begun to give up. It took too much effort just to breathe and the weight of his wet clothes was pinning him to the wood of his makeshift raft. He couldn’t move even if he tried.

_Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.  
In their blood the Maker's will is written._

There it was again. A distant chime, the faint echo of a shout. He opened his mouth, sucking in a lungful of jarringly cold air.

_Maker, if help is not to find me this day, then please let my end be painless._

A splash, the sound of voices ringing out harshly against the slap of waves…

 _Could it be_ _…?_

His eyes fluttered open, his mind barely registering the sensation of a warm hand touching his.

“He’s alive!”

 _Maker preserve me_ _…_

“Can you hear me, lad? Blink if you can.”

He took a shuddering breath, forcing his eyelids closed and then open again. The effort alone was draining. Why were his arms so heavy? Why couldn’t he move?

More shouts, gentle movements – a pair of strong arms bracing his weather-beaten torso and lifting him off his makeshift raft of debris.

“It’s alright now. You’re safe.”

 _Tired_ _… So tired…_

“Stay with us, lad! Don’t let the sleep take you. Maker, he’s frozen to the bone.”

“We need to get him back to the ship.” A woman’s voice, smooth, gentle, inviting. “His coat is soaked – he’ll die if we leave him out here in the open much longer.”

The sound of oars splashing, a wooden hull creaks against the waves…

“The ship went down quickly – too quickly. There is nobody else left to save.”

“Pirates?”

“Aye. Poor lad – it’s a miracle he survived.” The gruff voice continued, “Well dressed fellow; too well dressed for a sailor. Must have been a passenger on the merchant vessel. Wealthy family perhaps? A son running from his father’s demands—?”

“Stop writing his story, Varric. This is not one of your novels,” another female voice interjected. Unlike the first, this one was heavily accented and, if he were to take a guess, heavily _cynical_. She practically snorted her words.

“He’s got a kind face,” the first woman murmured again, her warm hand brushing his cheek. “I wonder what he was doing out here?”

The one he now recognized as Varric spoke again. “He’s got the shoulders of a swordsman and the hands of a soldier, but his clothes are too fine to be military.”

Several long moments passed. His exhaustion was so pressing now that the world around him seemed to fade away, little more than dull echoes of noise and movement. Vaguely he was aware of being lifted, of being hoisted up and then laid down upon a hard, unforgiving surface. The deck of a ship, perhaps? Either that or he was having a very vivid dream.

Forcing another shuddering breath, he ground his teeth and opened his eyes.

A kind face stared back down at him, beautiful kingfisher blue eyes returning his questioning gaze with astounding tenderness. “There – you are safe. Can you speak?”

He forced a nod.

“What is your name?”

Swallowing, trying to wet his parched lips, he lifted his head slightly. “Rutherford… My name is Cullen Rutherford.” His head spun with the effort, the boat pitching beneath him and sending him back onto his back with a weak cough.

“You need to stay with me, Cullen,” that sweet voice told him softly. Warm hands wrapping around his, small fingers trying to rub feeling back into his frozen palms. “Look at me. You can do this – don’t let the sleep take you.”

 _I can_ _’t fight it anymore…_ Cullen was weary, too weary. His eyes drifted shut even as her voice, her brilliant blue eyes, pervaded his last conscious thoughts. _I have been rescued by an angel._

 

* * *

_Two Days Earlier_ _…_

“You must be insane!”

“Sir, if you would allow me to explain…”

The Commodore spun on his heel, pincer-sharp eyes drilling down at the younger officer accusingly. “There is nothing to explain, Rutherford. Your plan is just not possible; it is far too dangerous. We simply cannot afford to take that kind of risk!”

Lieutenant Commander Rutherford took a deep breath through his nose, forcing his shoulders to straighten and his gaze not to waver. “With all due respect, Sir, our stratagem has failed us in the past. I think we should at least attempt to—”

“Enough!” Commodore Gregoir strode across the office furiously, his boots ringing off the stone floor with every heavy, determined step. “This is the Navy, boy, not one of those absurd novels you indulge your fantasies in.” The older man pinched the bridge of his nose, staring down at the paperwork on his desk in frustration. “We cannot send out one of our own ships and simply allow it to be destroyed for the sake of your cockeyed ideas. Youth these days – if this is what the future of the Templar Navy has in store then I pray to the Maker that I shall not live long enough to see it come to fruition. Far too rash and crude, the lot of you!”

Rutherford schooled his features carefully. He bit his tongue, doing his utmost to ignore the scathing remarks in favour of a more rational approach. “Sir, if I may? I believe if you examine my report that you will find that I have an alternative to—”

“You may not!” Gregoir picked up the Lieutenant’s report, balling it up in his fist furiously. “I have had enough of your drivel for one day, Rutherford. You will cease spouting this ludicrous nonsense immediately – unless you wish to be flogged for your impertinence, demoted and transferred to Kirkwall for the remainder of your pitiful career.” The Commodore waved a hand at him brusquely, seating himself at his desk and tossing the tightly wadded paper into the fireplace. “Now get out of my office!”

Bowing respectfully toward his superior officer and stepping out through the glass-panelled doors, the Lieutenant Commander worked to keep his demeanour impossibly steady. He was not about to crack just because one Commodore thought he was a misguided fool. He met the concerned gazes of the guardsmen, gave them a curt nod and made his way down the hall toward the main foyer.

Contrary to Commodore Gregoir’s opinion, Cullen Rutherford knew he would never have been awarded his gold bars unless he was capable and mature enough to perform his duty. He had been in the navy for long enough to know exactly what was expected of him. Even when he had joined Thedas’ Templar Fleet as a boy, he had been a quick study, infuriatingly determined to escape his initial position as a page boy. The other boys had mocked his initiative. Some had bullied him, others had watched in awe as he rose through the junior ranks that comprised the underbelly of the navy to become an enlisted officer at the age of seventeen.

It had been a momentous occasion. Cullen could still recall the parade through the streets of Denerim, hear the drums pounding from upon the city bulwarks, and feel the weight of the epaulets upon his shoulders and the grip of the bayonet-tipped musket in his hands. He had been one of a hundred young men to receive their ranks that day and yet he had felt so proud that there might as well have been no-one else marching beside him. It had seemed that the world had turned out just to applaud his efforts, to watch as he donned that uniform for the first time, to cheer when he shook the Admiral’s hand and received his commission.

To think that it had been thirteen years since then...

He had envisioned a grand career, and certainly he had served on many fine ships and in several ports over the past decade. He had seen more than his fair share of battles for a man who had just reached his thirtieth year. But his recent appointment to the Llomerynn outpost in Antiva as Commodore Gregoir’s entourage had brought him nothing but disenchantment and a sense of stifling dissatisfaction.

Perhaps the recent disaster at the Conclave would finally change all of that.

At least it _could_ , if only he could persuade somebody to take his idea seriously.

Cullen tugged at the lower hem of his cobalt wool coat, ignoring the bile that rose into his throat at being so unceremoniously dismissed. His cheeks burned with silent fury as he took the sandstone steps two at a time, striding through the grand hall and toward the open-air courtyard beyond.

“Ser Cullen!”

A familiar voice rang out behind him, and the Lieutenant Commander paused, heaving a resigned sigh. “Samson,” he acknowledged the other officer as he ran to catch up.

“Well?” The younger Lieutenant slapped him on the shoulder. “Did he approve the plan?”

Cullen shot his eager friend a somnolent glance. “I’m glad to hear the Commodore’s shouting didn’t echo all the way through the keep.”

“You mean...” Samson’s lined brow furrowed in confusion, “he said no?”

“He didn’t just _say_ it, Samson, he bellowed it for all the guardsmen and officers to hear!” Cullen’s jaw clenched and he threw open the grand oak door, ignoring the two stunned recruits who stood at their posts just beyond. The younger men looked on in disbelief as the typically self-possessed officer stormed past in a tangible rage, the other templar running to keep up as Rutherford resumed his punishing pace across the sweltering courtyard.

“He didn’t even so much as glance at my report before deeming it an utter failure,” Cullen bit out, casting a sideways glance at the men training in the dusty yard. “You would think that I had just handed him a child’s scrawled drawing the way he looked at it – he had already decided that it wasn’t worth his time.”

“Perhaps it was the stress of the Conclave getting to him,” Samson offered, his gruff voice taking on a sympathetic tone.

It was no secret: the Conclave had the entire Templar Fleet in an uproar. It was meant to be a peace mission. The twenty ships – complete with crews of two hundred Templars each and more than a hundred diplomats and dignitaries – had sailed from Kirkwall not two weeks before. They had been bound for the Waking Sea, destined to join there with an envoy from Redcliffe, sent by none other than the rebel mages.

That was how the Templars thought of them: brigands and buccaneers, an uncivilised lot who had forcibly destroyed the peace that had previously ruled Thedas. Cullen, however, was not entirely convinced that the Fleet was being completely honest as to their role in the rebellion. It was undeniable that some among the Templar chain of command had _forced_ the conflict. Still, the Admiralty had somehow allowed a peace mission to go ahead. It had been a step in the direction of restoration, of absolution.

But it had all gone wrong. According to the reports, the Conclave had taken place in the Waking Sea as planned. The forty ships had met and negotiating parties had crossed between the two sides with apparent ease. Not a single shot had been fired.

At least, not until the sky had been torn open.

 Witnesses from the shore saw only a vast, green light. Some described it as a glowing fist wrenching open the heavens themselves; others were convinced that the spirits of old had awakened and were slowly burning up the sky. Either way, the people of Thedas had descended into panic at the sight. But that was not where the terror had ended. The Conclave of ships, caught at the very centre of the terrifying storm, had been utterly off-guard. They had departed from their respective ports without the full weaponry payload – all in the interests of peace – and now found themselves unable to defend themselves. The reports that had trickled in from official sources indicated that the entire Conclave been destroyed in the wake of the furious storm. At least four thousand templars and nearly the same number of fatalities again from the mage convoy had been lost. Not a single soul had survived – except for one.

Eye witnesses had described a single ship escaping the breach. The Templar Navy had been at a loss to explain it, for it had not been among their convoy. Even the rebels had denied any knowledge of its existence. And yet, at least fifty different eyewitnesses had reported sighting the vessel. The description had indicated that it was a fully-rigged ship with four masts, a magnificent vessel bigger than even the Templar fleet’s grandest ship. Out of the witnesses only a few reported catching sight of the vessel’s insignia through the smoke and ruin, but they all reported the same: the symbol of an eye, encircled by a flaming sun and pierced by a sword. And even Ser Cullen, despite his supposed ‘youth and brashness’, knew what that dastardly symbol represented.

_The Inquisition._

They were the most feared pirates to roam the North Sea. Though they were but a single ship, they were so vast and powerful that not even the Templars dared to think of the Inquisition without trembling. Nobody had seen the Inquisitor herself, but it was rumoured that she was not only the most nefarious pirate of them all, but that no man could set eyes upon her face and live. Some believed that she was a desire demon in human form, for she seemed to have the power to bewitch all who sailed with her and to annihilate any who opposed her. Others whispered of a supernatural power, an ability to rend the heavens apart with nothing but a flourish of her hand.

Whether Cullen believed these rumours were true or not was beside the point – it simply could not be denied that the Inquisitor had _somehow_ been present at the Conclave. And now the Templars were in pandemonium, debating what course should be taken to bring her to justice. For it could only be assumed that a pirate with such unmeasurable power must be at the heart of the conspiracy; what other possibility was there?

Rutherford paused mid-stride, his shoulders sinking as he came out of his reverie and took in the view across the bastion courtyard. The summer heat had utterly parched the ground, and with every training exercise the men were stirring the dust into the air. Past them he could vaguely make out the sharp, winding edge of the island’s coast, beyond the deep cerulean ocean that would soon break in waves upon the harsh rocks beneath the cliff-top fortress.

Cullen still did not fully understand why he had been sent here when so many other officers of his rank had already been deployed to search for the Inquisitor. It wasn’t exactly a location of great significance. Llomerynn was hardly a naval stronghold; a majority of the local population scorned the Templars. Many were loyal to the Antivan Crows and thus resented the growing military presence on the island fort. The strategic significance of Llomerynn – and Salle, its sister fortress on the Antivan mainland – was undeniable. Since taking control of the two bastions, the Templar forces had accrued vast control over the main shipping lanes between Rivain and Antiva, thereby reducing the pirate activity in Rialto Bay quite significantly. Cullen had no doubt the buccaneers would eventually create new routes to the north, but at least the main passage into Antiva City was, for the moment, cut off. And that, he supposed, meant that the Inquisitor would be temporarily unable to gather supplies in what was undoubtedly her most frequented port.

That knowledge did little to soothe the bitterness that was storming in his heart.

Tension was high among the officers. That much he could understand. But Rutherford was tired of pandering to the Commodore’s endless moods, of tip-toeing about his duties like a terrified ensign. He was a Lieutenant Commander for Andraste’s sake! He should have had his own ship and crew by now and yet here he was playing political games instead. If he _had_ a crew, he could go and implement his plan without a tyrant like the Commodore dictating whether or not it was possible. Cullen knew he had potential. It was driving him slowly insane that he couldn’t use it. His fuse was growing shorter with each passing day and Samson and a few of the other officers knew it too, despite his best intentions to conceal the matter.

“Perhaps we can appeal to Rear Admiral Lucius?” Samson urged him after a moment of silence. “Come now, friend, surely it isn’t as bad as it seems.”

“The Admiral has bigger problems to deal with, I understand that. And I would not seek to interfere with his time. But surely a man of strategy, such as the Commodore, could understand the significance of this scheme?” The Lieutenant-Commander heaved a weary sigh and moved to stand at the stone wall overlooking the bay below. “Pursuing the perpetrator of this heinous crime is surely more important than sating political demands, or making false promises in lure of some underlying personal incentive. It’s times like these I wonder whether the Templar Fleet truly wants to serve Thedas – or whether it would have Thedas serve it.”

Samson’s dark eyes narrowed at this observation. He turned away, walking a few paces across the cobblestones before returning, “Perhaps you are right. But either way, Cullen, you cannot let this plan of yours go to waste. You should take it to Rear Admiral Lucius. What is the worst that could happen?”

Cullen shot him an incredulous look. “You mean besides having my idea dismissed in full view of all the admiralty and losing my commission altogether?”

That made his friend grimace. “If you can make them listen, then you would not need to worry for losing your commission! Your plan will _work_. I can see it; half the officers in the fort can see it. So Commodore Gregoir is a narrow-sighted old fool – everyone knows that.” There was a long pause then, “What if I told you I could get you an interview with the Admiral _without_ Gregoir’s approval?”

“You can’t be serious!” Cullen grasped Samson’s shoulder and dragged him out of view of the officers in the yard. “That’s impossible. Every application crosses the Commodore’s desk first.”

“That’s not entirely true.” The other Templar grinned artfully, that Machiavellian streak of his sparkling in his eyes. “I happen to have a friend in the Admiral’s entourage who could speak to him on your behalf. I am absolutely certain that you would not be refused.”

“How do you – no, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” Cullen’s head ached at the implications, and he rubbed at his brow instinctively, his fingers brushing against the powdered wig that suddenly felt far too constricting, far too hot. “You do realise this gamble of yours has my career on the line?”

Samson threw back his head and laughed. “It has _always_ been your career on the line, ever since we were recruits together. You were the one who leaped at opportunities, risked your reputation on hunches that always played out just as you predicted they would. That is why you were promoted and I have remained a Lieutenant. I, for one, have faith that you can do it again.”

“You put your faith in some very strange places, friend.”

“Do you want this plan of yours to happen or not? It’s your last chance to walk away.” When nothing but silence followed, Samson clapped him on the back. “I’ll send a missive to my contact and tell him to arrange a meeting for tomorrow morning.”

Cullen waited until his friend had rounded the corner of the barracks before reaching up to cradle his now throbbing head in his hands. A strangled groan escaped him, the collar of his starched white shirt suddenly felt excruciatingly tight. He tugged at his cravat anxiously, gasping for air as the full intensity of what had just transpired began to set in. A sheen of sweat formed on his brow all the while his golden eyes stared out across the turquoise Antivan Sea apprehensively. Dread wound up inside him like a coiled thread. One or two more twists and his finely tuned composure would snap.

 _Maker preserve me,_ Cullen implored the heavens silently, _what have I done?_

 

* * *

 

 _The Amaranthine Ocean_ _…_

The bow of the ship sliced through the waves cleanly, like a dagger parting turquoise silk. She watched through glinting eyes, taking in the familiar scent as spray washed over her, her calm demeanour belying the tempest within. Where the sea raged on the surface, she was terrifyingly calm. The depths of the water below hid a calmer world, a soothing paradise for its inhabitants. If only the same could be said for her.

Peace was not her path in life. Where others had found a purpose, a calling, she had only discovered confusion and treachery. That was her fate, she had decided. To never trust. To never rest.

Her lips pinched in a taut line. Slender fingers, gloved in black leather, dug into the worn side rail. _It would always end in fire._ Isn’t that what she had always seen – destruction, betrayal? First it had been her clan, her home, her friends – and now the destruction of the Conclave, and, as it would seem, a merchant ship.

It had been little more than a twisted, sinking wreck when they had stumbled upon it. It hadn’t taken long for her to realise that this had been the work of pirates. The merchant ship had taken a barrage of cannon fire to its hull, tearing open the wood and splintering the structure so drastically that the resulting intake of water had practically sheared the vessel in two. The two masts had collapsed in on each other, crippling the deck of the boat and adding even more fuel to what was rapidly becoming an inferno. Broken crates and barrels had escaped the hold, bobbing on the surface of the water. Somewhere beyond, a rowboat had been deployed – but now it too was wreathed in flame. The smoke rising into the sky was acrid, tinted red. As to survivors, at first she had doubted they would recover anyone from such a terrible wreck. Surely nobody could have survived such a blast.

And yet, moments later, her first mate had shouted, “There! A man in the water!”

The Captain had ordered the ship about, adjusting their course so that they could pass alongside the wreckage. And sure enough, there he was – a limp figure of a man, strewn across a crate with little more than his soaked clothing to protect him from the elements.

“Deploy a boat – bring him aboard.” She had given the order immediately. Who he was simply had not mattered. The man was bound to be half-frozen by now, and she was not about to stand by and watch him die.

 _If he wasn_ _’t already dead._

Her instruction was carried out with astounding speed. Several members of the crew rushed to lower one of the rig’s rowboats into the icy ocean; others rushed to carry out her barked instructions by gathering clean blankets, a pitcher of fresh water and a glass of strong brandy.

Finally, as the body of the shipwrecked man was gently passed from the raised lifeboat and lowered safely onto the deck, the Captain paused to take a breath. Kneeling, she laid her gloved hand upon the curve of his neck. It was icy to the touch, but a pulse still thrummed weakly beneath her fingers, a weak mist of breath passing through pale lips. She wrapped him in the first blanket herself. She was not above such things. And considering all that he had suffered, she doubted he would mind receiving such attentions from a privateer such as herself.

_Creators – he is beautiful._

He was human, she noted; he didn’t have pointed ears or the vallaslin that her own people favoured. The Captain estimated that he couldn’t have been much older than her, perhaps thirty at most. The man’s face was remarkably handsome – strong cheekbones, a chiselled jaw and a firm brow that framed his sweet eyelashes so perfectly. His features practically screamed nobility. His hair was hidden beneath a beautifully detailed wig – white, powdered, and rolled into soft curls just above each ear. It was a style the Captain knew was popular among human nobility. She imagined that normally the wig’s polished style would add to his handsome but intimidating demeanour. As it was, the pale colour only heightened the sickly shade of grey that had taken hold in his cheeks.

“Brandy – quickly!” She held out one gloved hand to receive the glass, easing the stranger’s head up slightly so that he was resting in the crook of her arm. She gingerly tipped the edge of the vessel to his lips, allowing a trickle of the warming liquid to slide down his tongue. A moment passed and then the man coughed, his body responding by flooding his lips with colour.

“That’s better,” she murmured, giving him another sip. “There, easy now.”

He was barely conscious, sliding in and out of a trance-like state with shudders and incoherent murmurs. But at least there was a light pink tint forming in those cheeks.

Satisfied that the man would at least be able to drink when it was required, the Captain allowed him to lie back and recover for a moment. She appraised him again, noting that he was clad in an ornate suit: an expensive wool cloth no less, and dyed a magnificent shade of burgundy. The heavy jacket hung open, revealing the scarlet sash that was tied about his slender waist. A gold-embroidered vest, a white shirt and a loosened silk cravat and a thin gold chain that peeked through the gap in the neckline. Curiosity piqued, the Captain made a note to take a closer look at that detail later. She let her hand linger on his cheek for a moment, but removed it when she saw his eyelashes quiver.

“There,” she murmured, easing his head up slightly and rubbing one frozen hand to try and induce circulation back into those frozen fingers. “You are safe.”

The stranger’s eyes fluttered open to reveal the most striking gold irises the Captain had ever seen. His gaze was glassy, disoriented. And yet his pupils settled upon her face, focusing slowly and taking her in. Instantly a chill rushed up her spine. If she had thought he was handsome before, then seeing him like this was like being struck by a lightning bolt.

_Of all the men to be plucked from the sea..._

“Can you speak?” She asked after a moment.

The man nodded, wincing with the effort.

The Captain reached for another blanket, bundling it up loosely and laying it beneath his head. “What is your name?”

There was a pause as the survivor slowly licked his lips, struggling to form the words. “Cullen...” He finally managed, sinking back against the makeshift pillow weakly. “My name i-is... Cullen Rutherford.”

The Captain let her eyes drift skyward in a prayer of thanks to the Creators. Even his name sounded noble.

Suddenly her charge let out a weak gasp, his eyes closing again. She leapt into action, knowing that if he slept, they may not be able to wake him again. The cold always lured its victims into a deep sleep. She had seen the after effects of icy water take friends, colleagues, before – far too many times. She was not about to just let it take him.

“You need to stay with me, Cullen,” the Captain insisted, wrapping his palms together between hers and massaging them gently. “Look at me.”

He did, but only for a moment, sighing faintly when the urge to sleep overtook him.

“No,” she warned, shaking him, “you can do this – don’t let the sleep take you. Cullen? Cullen, listen to my voice, don’t fall asleep.”

But it was too late. The young man’s head sank back into the blankets, his breathing falling into a thready, weak rhythm.

“Take him to the officer’s cabins,” she instructed. “Clear one of the bunks and ensure that he is comfortable. I do not want anyone to disturb him while he sleeps, but I would like to ensure that he is kept company. Solas, you may take first watch.” She rose to her feet. “I will take the second watch at sunset – keep him warm, give him a sip of brandy until you see more colour in his face, and send for me if he wakes before then.”

The mage bowed, “As you wish, Inquisitor.”

While a few of the deck hands helped to move the injured man, the Inquisitor moved to stand upon the prow.

And that is where she remained hours later, thinking on the events of the day with a mixture of awe and apprehension. Lavellan had been so lost in thought that she barely noticed the sun sinking below the horizon.

A hand brushed against her shoulder. “Inquisitor, are you well?”

She turned, brilliant blue eyes meeting those of her spymaster and first mate - the one they called Nightingale. “I believe so, Leliana. How does our survivor fare?”

“He breathes easier,” the bard returned, folding her hands neatly behind her back and staring out across the calm waters. “And yet I do not.”

“What do you mean?” The Inquisitor’s brow arched at that.

“He is so well dressed and yet his body speaks of a life of hardship. He has scars, Inquisitor. And not just on the surface.” Leliana’s hands gripped the rigging as a gust of wind whipped up around them. Her cloak cluttered, revealing a pair of sharp, eagle-like eyes and a beguiling mouth. “Our friend has many secrets to share with us. Perhaps our meeting was not by providence alone. After all, how does a man of such consequence come to be shipwrecked in the middle of the ocean? So far from home, with nothing more than the clothes on his back? Do you not think it to be a little strange, Inquisitor, that he is the only survivor?”

Lavellan folded her arms with a long-suffering sigh. “And what would you have me do, Leliana?”

“Nothing, for now,” The Orlesian trilled sweetly - too sweetly. Beneath that gentle visage was a woman of steel, and the Captain pitied anyone who dared to underestimate the indomitable Leliana. “He may be what he seems, but I shall keep him under observation. Just in case.”

“If you think it is truly necessary,” Lavellan conceded and shook her head, shifting her long, auburn locks - braided and adorned with silver and blue beads - over one shoulder. “Either way,” the elf bit her lip and smiled, “the handsome Mister Rutherford could prove a useful asset to our cause. Of that, I am certain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To Be Continued: "Voyage to Haven" - coming soon!
> 
> This was a short chapter, but I promise to explain in the next part. In the meantime, thank you for reading! :)


End file.
